Shock ran through the world.
And over his voice, the high call of the oliphants. Behind him a rising thutter of hooves, as the lancers crested the rise a thousand strong.
“Morrigu!” he screamed.
“Artos and Montival!”
“Very neat timing,” he gasped a half hour later, and forced his breathing to slow.
The ground beneath them was actually muddy with blood; he’d heard of that in songs, but never seen it before, and the smell was rank and metallic. Men were stabbing downward with their lances to give the mercystroke, mostly to wounded horses. Tiphaine d’Ath reined in across from him, limned by the morning sun; her mount snorted at Epona, then tossed its barded head aside, eyes rolling beyond the brow ridges of the steel peytral that warded its head as the big mare ignored him.
Rudi raised his voice a little to carry as he leaned over and extended his hand.
“Well done, and very well done, Grand Constable. I gave you a task, and you did it. Very well done indeed.”
They gripped forearms for a moment. “The main column, Your Majesty?” she asked. “I had Lord Rigobert in command of it while I held the rear.”
“Safe and back to our lines by now, eating barley bannock and bean soup by the field kitchens.”
A very slight sigh. Don’t be overwhelming me with shouts of joy, now, he thought. Another man came up beside her, the commander of the Yakima foot.
“Brigadier Wheedon, an impressive display of courage and cool discipline from your troops. Get your men on their bicycles and moving right now. Directly west will do, it’s not steep.”
“My wounded, ah, your lordship High King?”
“I’ve brought up a column of field ambulances. But waste no time. Abandon any gear that can’t follow quickly; goods we can replace more easily than brave men. Move!”
“Yessir!” he said, and went off at a run.
Rudi looked at the tattered ranks of the knights behind the Grand Constable. One man had a helm with half an ostrich-feather plume, the rest sheared away; he recognized the olive face of the Count Palantine of the Eastermark when the visor was raised and the splintered shield’s heraldic symbols: Or, a tree vert with a wolf passant sable, on a tree brun.
“My lord Count Felipe,” he called. “Well-met. There’s news from Walla Walla via the heliograph net. Your good lady is a notable war-captain; they beat off another assault there from the enemy yesterday, and inflicted heavy loss.”
The man beamed. Rudi turned to the others. “Colonel Vogeler, Lord Alleyne, Rick, you’ll screen the heavy horse. They’ll be at us before we’re back. Make them bunch and we’ll punch at them again; or if they don’t, we’ll keep withdrawing.”
Three Bears was grinning beneath his black-and-white war paint; he’d stopped with three strings of scalps, and they dripped onto the hide of his horse.
“Damned if we didn’t finish off every third one, Strong Raven,” he said.
“Damned if they won’t come on again anyway,” Rudi said grimly.
He glanced around for Matti, and his heart lurched when he saw her destrier standing empty-saddled, but then he realized Huon Liu was holding it. She was on foot, and a man knelt before her. It was Conrad’s youngest son.
“… arise, Sir Ogier!” she finished.
He did, managing a tired smile. Rudi leaned, and Epona pivoted. Nobody was left on the rise the pikemen had held, nobody but the dead. Far above a glider turned, the near-noon sun flashing from its polished canopy, a brightness among the black wings of the carrion birds.
And eastward-
He gasped, and then shook his head as the others looked at him. His hand clasped the hilt of the Sword.
“He is coming,” he heard himself say. “The Prophet. Sethaz is coming.”
